To the point
ON the outskirts of the New Forest, some five miles from the Dorset coast, stands a building stuck in time. This stocky, one-storey structure is made of rough stone, with tendrils of ivy creeping down from the eaves and an old wooden-plank door. At first, I walk straight past, presuming it empty, until I hear the tell-tale clang of a hammer from inside. I backtrack, approach, knock and wait. The door is opened by the man I’ve come to meet. Then, I step into another world.
Will Sherman, with his flat cap, beard and blacksmith’s physique, ushers me over the threshold of his forge. ‘Come in, come in,’ he says, as my eyes adjust to
